


To Wash You Clean And Hold You

by Squash (JeSuisGourde)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M, showering together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16320272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeSuisGourde/pseuds/Squash
Summary: It's been over a week. Ian hasn't moved from the bed, hasn't eaten, barely speaks. The worry gnaws at Mickey's chest. Even the simplest actions seem so hard for him. Carl's advice doesn't make him feel much better. But at least Mickey knows he can help Ian, that he's not going to give up, that he's going to get him through it, even if it's something as small as a shower or a glass of water.Takes place between S4 and S5.





	To Wash You Clean And Hold You

It's been days. Mickey wants to punch something, or pace, or scream, but instead he's slumped on the sofa, beating up virtual assholes onscreen instead of bloodying his knuckles on the streets. He'd say it's because it's too cold out. It would be a lie. He just doesn't want to leave Ian all alone in the house, even if he hasn't gotten out of bed yet. Because today could be the day he does. It could.

It's been days since Ian moved. It's been days since the house felt like it was full. The gunfire on the television sounds tinny and wrong, too quiet to be exciting, loud enough to be uncanny. Mickey jumps at the bang of a body on wood, then rolls his eyes at the sound of footsteps clomping rapidly up his porch. His brothers don't sound like that. Only Gallaghers run up the stairs like they're on a pounding rampage. He already misses his own personal army running up the steps every day. As the door opens noisily, he lights a cigarette one-handed and drops the lighter back down on the table.

“How's Ian?” Carl drops down on Mickey's couch without preamble. Mickey looks up from his near-silent video game and gestures towards the back of the house.

“Go see for yourself, man, don't ask me.”

The silence in the house stretches taught as Carl opens the bedroom door and stands at the edge of the sucking gloom. Mickey doesn't have to look to know Ian's curled on his side with the blanket over his head, a glass of water slowly evaporating on the table beside him. He's been like that for days. Mickey wakes up every morning hoping to find something's changed, and every morning he's greeted with the solid, melancholy wall of Ian's back.

Carl sits back down, catching the beer Mickey tosses his way. “He won't eat?”

“He won't do shit. I try to get him up but he just tells me to go away.” The constriction in his throat could be worry, could be anger, he's just not sure. “I have to force him to drink water. He hasn't showered in over a week. Fuck, I'm this fucking close to just picking him up and dumping him in the goddamn tub.”

“Monica was like that, too.” Carl says, nodding. “Frank did actually carry her into the shower, you know. She'd cry when we made her get out of bed.”

“I don't want to make him do shit he doesn't want to do.”

“Sometimes you have to, man.” At Mickey's conflicted expression, Carl waves his beer in an all-encompassing arc. “Like showering, you know, important stuff. Just—don't go fucking nuts with it, alright? I mean parties, people, that shit, don't do it. You don't want him slitting his fucking wrists in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner.”

Mickey blinks, his stomach swooping in shock as he makes the connection. “She really do that?”

“Yeah,” Carl shrugs. “Few years ago. Went into the kitchen while we were all eating in the living room. We heard her fall. There was blood fucking _everywhere_. I didn't get to see what happened, though. Vee made me and Debbie go upstairs as soon as everyone realized what was going on.”

“Shit,” Mickey mutters, draining his beer almost desperately. He wipes his mouth. “Ian didn't tell me about that.”

“You were in juvie.”

“Oh.” But he can't help imagining the Gallagher kitchen full of blood, can't help this unwanted mental exercise conjuring up Ian in the middle of it all, pale and limp like the night he passed out in the snow. Carl is still talking.

“Anyway, she was fine. Well, as fine as Monica can be, I guess. I mean, she survived and all.” He grins that slightly maniacal little grin. “She even escaped from the nuthouse.”

Jesus. And here he thought _his_ family was fucked up.

“Fucking Gallaghers,” Mickey runs his hands across his face. “Any more advice, big guy?”

“Yeah. Don't be Frank. Ian needs someone to help him, not someone to give in to the shit his disease wants.”

Mickey scowls. “I'm no pushover.”

“Yeah, I know.” Pushing himself to his feet, Carl snags another beer and shrugs his coat on. “That's why I'm glad he's here. Listen, I've got some shit to do. Let me know if anything changes.”

“Will do. Tell Debbie she can give cheerleading a try too, if she wants.” Carl's already halfway to the door, chugging the can in his hand. “And quit drinking all my beer!”

Whirlwind Carl is gone and Mickey cracks another beer, chugging most of it in three long pulls. The house is quiet again, and he's alone. Only now he's got nothing to do but play his video game with the volume down to almost nothing, shooting glances at the closed door of his bedroom. Not really alone, is he? The weight of empty despair is so heavy he can feel it from out here, and this is not something he knows how to deal with. He can run drugs and guns with the best of them, will happily smash anyone's faces in, but this is not something he can beat up or pay off. Ian's in that bedroom, eyes dull and watery, staring without seeing and breathing but not moving, and Mickey's maybe not desperate yet but he's getting there, and every glance at Ian's back has him biting his lip and trying not to punch the wall.

When Svetlana gets home, pushing Yevgeny into his arms, Mickey is grateful for the distraction. But he can only coo and bounce the baby for so long before his eyes drift back to the cardboard sign that feels more like a message to himself than to anyone else. After an hour or two of looking after Yevgeny, trying to resist the urge to check on Ian every ten minutes, he shoves the baby back into Svetlana's arms and goes to The Alibi. Vee takes one look at his drawn face and twitching hands and raises an eyebrow.

“Whiskey?”

Mickey nods curtly. “Bottle.”

He knocks back a couple mouthfuls and sighs. Christ. He's been to juvie, gotten into his fair share of fights and risky business and more, he grew up with his own fucking _father_ , so why is _this_ shit hard? He can't wrap his head around it. Vee startles him out of his reverie as she wipes down the counter beside him. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Hey, remember Thanksgiving a few years ago? With the Gallaghers? And Monica?”

Vee huffs a breath, widening her eyes at him. “Hell, yeah, I remember it. Blood all over the kitchen, everyone screaming, it was fucked up.”

Mickey drops his chin to his chest. “I didn't know about it.”

“Ian didn't tell you?”

“I was in juvie. Was he okay, y'know, after?”

Vee shrugs, her gaze on the glasses she's stacking in front of her. “Well, him and Fi just stood there staring while Jimmy yelled for more towels. But after it was all over, yeah, I think he was alright. Not much more traumatized than usual. He's tough, you know.”

Mickey smiles a little. “I know.”

“Still, it was a pretty fucked up thing to do to your family on a nice holiday like Thanksgiving. We had a turkey and everything! It wasn't the first time with Monica, you know. I don't know the details,” Vee picks the bottle of whiskey up and fills his glass again, a sympathetic look on her face. “Overdose, something like that. Poor Fi. I think it was starting to get a little old.”

Mickey knocks back the drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hm.”

He stays late and gets drunk and doesn't ask Vee any more questions. He manages not to get into any fights and when Kev comes in asking about Ian, he knows it's time to split. Walking back home in the frigid darkness, worry is already cutting through the haze of drunkenness. It sits heavy on his chest, pressing closer as his front door comes in sight. What the fuck is he supposed to do?

Ian hasn't moved. It's nearly midnight and Mickey can feel himself starting to sober up and Ian has been curled at the edge of the bed all day. Mickey's pillow is still pressed up close to his back where he'd shifted closer to Ian's still form. Kicking off his jeans, he slides back into place under the covers, his fingers hovering in the air over Ian's bare spine.

When he touches him, Ian doesn't flinch, doesn't tense, doesn't move at all. Mickey wraps his arm around him, fingers curled around Ian's wrist, his nose pressed up against his shoulder. The gentle pulse under Mickey's fingertips is reassuring, the breath he can feel as Ian's ribs expand back against his chest makes something inside him constrict with emotion. The new knowledge of the Gallagher Thanksgiving three years ago rears its ugly head and Mickey suppresses a shudder, trying not to imagine Ian in his kitchen, covered in blood, in his bathroom fading away and choking on vomit. Trying not to imagine Ian just leaving him without being able to stop it. A few tears escape and he sniffs wetly, pressing his lips to the back of Ian's neck. “Fuck,” he breathes, unable to bite back the aching worry. He can do anger, he can do pain, he can even do fear, but he has no idea what to do with helplessness.

-

Mickey wakes to the solid, aching wall of Ian's back, both of his arms trapped between his chest and Ian's spine, his forehead pressed to the space between his shoulder blades. Ian is breathing slow and deep, and Mickey runs a hand across the tattoo on his ribs as he slides out from under the sheets in search of cigarettes.

Rubbing his eyes, he pours water into the day-old grounds sitting in the coffee machine and flicks it on, then wipes a mug clean with the corner of a dishtowel, setting it down next to the machine and moving to pull on a jacket and beanie. He detours from the kitchen to paw through the junk on the coffee table in his search for smokes and comes up victorious just as the percolator clicks off, pours himself a mug and heads outside. Normally he'd be smoking on the couch, but he needs the cold air to clear his head, to wake him up. He needs to be awake, and sober, if he wants to help Ian. If he wants to get Ian to work with him. He shakes his head and spits dispassionately into the snow below the porch. Two weeks ago they were covered in blood, shaken but laughing, and Ian was kissing his hair and pulling him close. Now Mickey can't even get him to talk, let alone kiss him or laugh. What a reward for coming out.

It's some real bullshit, finally lifting the burden of fear, feeling the sudden lightness and freedom that coming out afforded him, finally feeling like he can touch and kiss without looking over his shoulder, and now this new weight, this worry and hurt that has his eyes stinging and his throat half-closed with anxiety over the miserable form curled up in his bed. He doesn't blame Ian, he really doesn't. But it's terrifying and draining, watching him transform overnight from the grinning, energetic ball of ginger determination into this dulled, aching mass of sheets and despair in his bed.

Standing on the porch, the cold wind biting his cheeks, he smokes three cigarettes in quick succession, just to psych himself up for this. He doesn't want to fight Ian, or force him to do things, but he will if he has to. He's not sure what's worse, Ian telling him to leave him alone or Ian lying there, his limbs heavy with silence. He smokes the last cigarette down to the filter, stubs it out on the cold railing and heads back inside. The jacket goes back over the back of the couch, the mug goes in the sink, and Mickey faces the door to his room with that slow burn of protective worry sitting heavy in his chest.

Ian is a sad lump at the far edge of the bed. Mickey moves to kneel in front of him, trying not to flinch when the thousand-yard stare doesn't turn his way. “Ian? I know you feel like shit right now but you need to take a shower.”

“No,” Ian whispers. His voice is rough with disuse and lacks inflection. “I can't.”

“Listen, man,” he runs a hand gently through Ian's hair. “I'll help you. It might even make you feel a little better. It's been over a week, Ian.”

Ian groans in response, cradling his head in his arms, shoulders hunched.

“Come on, I'll help you out. All you gotta do is walk over there. I'll do all the work. We'll be showering together.”

“Can't,” Ian mumbles, the miserable protest muffled into his arms. Mickey bites his lip.

“Can't what?”

“Get up.”

“All right. I can carry you?” Ian buries his head further into his arms. Mickey stands restlessly and sighs, trying to tamp down the worried frustration that threatens to bubble up. “Look, you really need to get clean, Ian. I know we live in a shithole but a week and a half without showering is too much, even for me. Let me help you. All you gotta do is sit up. Once you've showered, you can get right back into bed, okay?”

“I don't know.”

The L rumbles by in the silence and Mickey runs his hands through his hair. “Okay. How 'bout I get you up and into the shower, and I'll wash us off, then you can go back to bed? That sound good?”

Silence, but at least Ian is looking at him, a sort of empty despair in his eyes.

“C'mon, man, work with me here. I know you feel like shit. I know. Look, if you don't _want_ to, I won't make you, but you should.” Ian's eyes cut away, towards the floor, and something clicks in Mickey's head. He kneels again and cups Ian's cheek, feeling the warm breath against the inside of his wrist. “Hey, if you want to do it but feel like you can't, I'll help you. It's what I'm fuckin' here for, y'know?”

“I want to,” Ian whispers. “I just— I just can't.”

Mickey nods. “Okay. I'm going to get the shower started, all right? And then I'll help you get up.”

Ian nods miserably and turns away. Mickey kisses his hair, thumb stroking across his face as he stands. In the bathroom, he starts the shower and turns the hot water up, flips the cap open on the shampoo and sticks the soap in a reachable spot. There's a razor in the cabinet over the sink and he pulls it out and hides it under the sink, back behind the pipe's u-bend. He sniffs the towels hanging on the rack to make sure they're clean. For a minute he thinks about pulling out his toothbrush for Ian to use, but that's too much. If he can barely handle a shower, Mickey doubts he can do brushing his teeth.

Ian's still in the same position, head pillowed on his arms, blankets pulled up to his ribs. He sniffles quietly when Mickey kneels in front of him and looks back with watery eyes. Mickey cards his fingers through Ian's greasy hair.

“Hey, you ready for this?” Ian nods, then shakes his head. Mickey watches the tears slide down the side of his nose, and that same frightened worry twists against his heart. “Okay. Okay. I got it. You want to but you feel like you can't. It's all good, Red, I got you. I'm gonna get you up, okay? I know it's hard. I'll do all the work, man.”

A hand under Ian's shoulders and he's pulling him upright, slow and gentle, Ian limp and doll-like in his hands. The tears really start once he's in a sitting position, dripping down to his chin and Ian doesn't even move to wipe them away.

“You're doing good, Ian. I'm gonna stand you up, okay? You can lean on me, but you gotta help me a little bit with this one. Your tall ass is kinda heavy, so unless you want me to carry you, you gotta at least walk a little.”

Ian nods weakly and glares at the floor like he's angry at it for having to walk on it. “Yeah.”

“Okay, let's get you up.” And he tugs Ian upright with hands under his arms, pulling one arm around his shoulder like he's helping him stumble drunkenly home. Only this time they're both stone sober and the quiet tears are so far from drunken weeping. It's slow going, but they shuffle to the bathroom together. Ian leans heavily against Mickey's side like he's going to collapse any second. Mickey kicks the bathroom door shut with his heel and lowers Ian down onto the closed toilet seat, wiping gently at his tear-streaked face.

“I'm gonna get your clothes off, then we'll get in the shower, yeah? We can sit down in there, you don't gotta stand.”

The nod this time is slow, but there, and Ian doesn't open his eyes. Mickey is gentle as he slips Ian's shirt off, gentle as he helps Ian lift his hips a little to pull off his boxers. Ian curls into himself, naked and shivering on the toilet seat and Mickey hates how small he looks, how shriveled and dull compared to the bright, gigantic Ian that had run him ragged and grinning with energy, pushed him and kissed him and fought for him and smiled, smiled, smiled. He pulls off his own clothes and helps Ian up and into the cradle of the tub, lowers him down to sit cross-legged under the stream of water.

“I'm gonna sit behind you, okay? All you gotta do is sit here, Ian.” He arranges his legs on either side of Ian's body, scooting close. Normally he'd be hard in an instant, sitting this type of position, but the worry overrides everything else. Ian is slumped in front of him, hardly reacting at all to the water pounding down against the back of his head. Mickey squeezes some shampoo into his hand and rubs his palms together. “I'm washing your hair now. Just keep your eyes closed so you don't get shampoo in 'em.”

Slowly, he works shampoo into Ian's hair, massaging his scalp with gentle circular movements, working the suds down into his hair and across his head. Ian is silent and pliant under his hands, hardly reacting when Mickey helps him bend his head under the water to rinse the shampoo away.

“Soap, now,” he says softly. The washcloth has long since disappeared into the chaos of the house, so he runs the bar of soap over Ian's skin, his hand chasing after it to lather it and rub the dirt and sweat away. He soaps Ian's back and the back of his neck first, then moves down both arms, gently works the lather into Ian's armpits and across his chest. He's rubbing the bar of soap across Ian's stomach when he feels his breath hitch.

“I'm sorry,” Ian whispers, his right hand moving just barely to rest on Mickey's shin. “I'm fucking pathetic. Can't even fucking shower.”

“You got nothing to apologize for.” Mickey stops soaping his stomach and kisses the side of his head instead, leaning his cheek against Ian's ear. “Do you remember, after that bitch old lady shot me in the ass, and you helped me change the bandages every day because it was easier for you to do it than for me to twist around like a fucking acrobat? It's like that, Ian. Right now you can't do something so I'm doing it for you. 'S not pathetic. It's hard for you right now so I'm fucking helping out.”

“I should be able to do this on my own.” And it's so quiet under the rush of the water he barely hears it.

“Tough shit. I'm doing it for you today, okay? If it makes you feel better, think of it as us getting even. You helped me, now I'm helping you. Now let me wash your legs.”

Ian falls silent as Mickey bends each of Ian's legs and soaps them up, even making sure to get his feet and the backs of his knees. He runs the bar of soap between his legs, cleaning him gently. His touch isn't clinical, but he's not trying anything funny right now. He knows Ian's not up for it. They sit together for a moment under the patter of hot water while Ian rinses off, his eyes closed. But for the obvious, it's almost nice. When Mickey shuts the water off, Ian curls into himself again, the cold air rushing in. Mickey wraps a towel around his own waist and helps Ian out of the tub, draping a towel over his shoulders and rubbing him down while Ian leans against him, forehead pressed to Mickey's shoulder.

“C'mon, back to the bedroom and we'll get some clean clothes on you, then you can go back to bed, alright?”

He'll work on washing the sheets another time.

It feels like he's handling a toddler, the way he helps Ian lift each foot to step into his boxers, the way he pulls them up for him, slips his shirt on for him. It doesn't matter. Ian sniffles miserably and curls up under the covers again, but he presses back against Mickey's hand when he runs his fingers through Ian's wet hair, and when Mickey climbs into bed and slides down to lie beside him, he curls a hand around his wrist and holds on.

“That feels a little better, doesn't it?” Mickey asks, and Ian nods, just barely. “You did it, Ian. That's all you gotta do for today. Now you can sleep it off.”

He barely hears the “thank you” that's whispered into the pillow, but he kisses Ian's shoulder and shrugs, knowing Ian can feel it.

“Hey man, that's what I'm here for.”

He waits until Ian's breathing has evened out into sleep before he pulls out of Ian's light grip and sits up. He has shit he has to do today—go to the rub n' tug and make sure everything's running smoothly over there, get in touch with whichever Gallagher sibling is around to find out what else he can do, convince Mandy to watch Yevgeny for the night—but he just wants to sit here and watch Ian sleep. He stares at the side of Ian's face, and his heart constricts. That gut-clenching worry sits insistent under his ribs, but they're going to get through this. He'll take care of Ian. He fucking promised, and he doesn't back down from a promise. He has no idea how many more days like this they'll have, but it doesn't matter because he's going to get Ian through all of them. He wanders out into the living room for a smoke, but leaves the door open so he can see Ian's forlorn shape from across the room. He came out for the fucker, he went to juvie for him, he's not about to stop fighting for him. He's not about to walk away. It's ride or die with this one, and Mickey's going to hold on so tight they'll have to kill him or cut his hands off before he lets go.

 


End file.
